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Thursday, January 12, 2012

Variety Short Story: "Blond Stranger" by Rachel Rossano

In 2006, Rachel and seven other authors, two other veterans and five newbies, began an exciting venture. They resolved to write eight fantasy novels that begin and end in the same place. The characters would be a family of eight siblings. Each writer adopted a sibling for their own and wrote that character’s story, posting each completed chapter on a blog dedicated to that character.

Rachel novel following Wren Romany, one of the middle siblings, took over five years to write. Three years of that time she was not writing due to pregnancy or newborns. Pregnancy and sleep deprivation make her brain disconnect. However, once she finished Wren’s story, she realized she couldn’t leave the world or the characters alone. Blond Stranger is part one of a side story featuring a secondary character, Svhen Bejork.

The heavy tread of soldiers’ feet across the floor boards
above rained debris on my hair. I didn’t care. Huddled between the almost empty
flour barrel and a bin of eye-ridden potatoes, I was safe. Breathing the scents
of dirt and darkness freshly disturbed, I prayed for the stranger stranded in
our barn.

Where could he escape to?

They would search the barn. They always did.

Press gangs, the latest danger under the Enforcer’s regime,
were usually the worst of our worries. Thankfully Father was in the fields;
Mother and Ander had left for Suzette’s farm with the morning sun. A journey
that took hours, they would be safely ensconced in her kitchen by now. I alone
remained.

I had spotted the band of men when they turned off the road.
There had been plenty of time to hide in the storage cellar, but not to warn the
handsome stranger in the barn.

My gut twisted over like kneaded dough. I was such a coward.

A crash above jolted me from my thoughts.

“Nothing here of value,” one man called to another. The
clatter of Mother’s pot rack plunging to the hearth stones drowned all other
sounds. Father would have to un-dent pans tonight.

“Porintate, cease that ruckus, idiot!” the leader ordered.

“The weasel said he saw the westerner headed this way,” the
first voice complained.

“He must’ve passed by without stopping,” a third suggested.

Someone kicked the slop bucket. It skittered across the
uneven boards above me. The stench of rotting apples, turnips, and cabbage
filled my nose as glops of liquid dripped on my hair and face.

A distant yell, probably from the yard, pulled anxiety into
my chest. I strained my ears, fearing what I might learn. Had they found him?

Please protect him,
Deus. I pled with every fiber of faith I possessed. He was a god of
miracles, right? Lord Mynth’s son had survived the battle of Catrona to return
and offer us hope. My sister Suzette married and delivered a healthy child
despite her limp. Surely He would spare the blond stranger from the press gangs
of the Enforcer.

“Get moving!” the leader barked. “He must have continued
without stopping. Catch some chickens for our supper. Shift your lazy bones.
The Enforcer says the traitors are somewhere in the valley.”

“A reward for those who find them too,” the second voice
added.

“Yes, Porintate, now stir your carcass. You are blocking the
door.”

After a short period of yelling and cursing as they captured
the chickens, they finally left.

I raised my hand to pull myself up when sound above made me
pause.

Had they returned? I listened to the silence. Perhaps one of
the goats had wandered into the house.

“Hello?”

I jumped. My head struck the potato bin. My cry of pain
seemed a small matter as stars blossomed across my vision.

He heard. Heavy footfalls crossed straight to the loose
boards. Before I panicked, he worked the first plank free.

“Are you alright?”

Relief flooded me at the sight of his worried features. It
was my blond stranger.

“They didn’t find you?”

“Of course not.” He pulled the next board out and then
offered me a hand. No, it resembled a bear paw, massive like the rest of him.
He lifted me up, with one arm.

I was not a delicate woman. Mother called me sturdy from
birth. A sharp contrast to frail Suzette, I rarely fell ill and always managed
any task set to me. So, when the stranger hauled me from the cellar with no
visible effort, it took my breath away.

My head came up of its own accord. “What?” The word slipped
past my lips before I caught it. My cheeks warmed. “Sorry, it’s just that…” I
stumbled to a halt when I focused on his face. All thoughts fled.

He was smiling. He waited politely, but I couldn’t speak.
Words mobbed my thoughts, but they all were wrong.

“Might I know your name?” he asked.

“Lenora Gorseby.”

He nodded and strode toward the door, stooping to not hit
his head on the lintel.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed to ask, “And
yours?”

He paused outside the doorway, lowering his head so he could
see me still standing midst the pots and slop in the kitchen.

“Svhen Bejork.” He straightened and then paused. Leaning a hand
against the outer wall, he lowered his voice. “I am in the service of Tourth
Mynth. Should you need me, send someone to the ruins and ask for Svhen.”

Then, after another bone-melting smile, he was gone.

It took me a full three minutes to gather my senses. I
scrambled to the door in time to spot his broad shoulders disappearing among
the trees beyond the barn. Watching after him until even the gleam of the sun
on his head was out of sight, I clutched my hands to my chest like a ninny.

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About Me!

I've been writing since I was old enough to grasp a crayon--my grandma even has an early copy of a "book" I made her. I have a bachelor's degree in history from the University of Wyoming and will (hopefully) soon be starting a graduate program in English. When I'm not breaking up impromptu UFC fights in the living room or losing miserably to my boys at Uno, I'm ... well, writing or editing, of course! I'm married to my best friend, and we have three rambunctious but simply amazing little boys.

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